


Damselion in Distress

by ArcaneAddict



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Other, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:48:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24897952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArcaneAddict/pseuds/ArcaneAddict
Summary: Jaskier/Dandelion sprains his ankle badly and Geralt struggles with how much he feels and how bad he is at showing it, even when he wants to. Bonus for piggyback rides and a callback to the old "we've got to huddle together for warmth" meme. Platonic but still romantic friendship. My reaction to all the "oblivious Geralt doesn't realize Jaskier is sick" fics. He's got highly attuned senses and in the books, helps poor Triss when she's super sick and has awful diarrhea while they're traveling.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 56





	Damselion in Distress

**Author's Note:**

> I sprained my ankle badly about 3 weeks ago. It sucks, and I'm still limping. Those Victorian heroines had reason to swoon!

When Jaskier vanished off the hillside path, Geralt first assumed it was intentional. The bard routinely disappeared and reappeared on mysterious little errands and whims that included “Getting sick of the smell of onions” and “That girl had especially fine eyes”. It didn’t take long for him to realize that something had gone wrong. The sharp scent of adrenaline hit him first, followed heel to toe by a jump in the man’s heart-rate. Jaskier was sending off wild signals in every direction that screamed distress.

Geralt led Roach by the bridle to retrace the path; he tethered her to a weedy pine when he heard Jaskier calling out, from below a shale-strewn outcropping that said “unstable” to Geralt but probably said “romantic view of the valley” to the bard.

He picked his way around the gravel and broken rock shards that marked where Jaskier must have fallen. The steep slope offered small purchase and the witcher used scrub bushes and sometimes the shallow mountain clay itself to avoid a fall himself. He wedged himself, one hand curled around a prickly mountain thistle as he leaned forward far enough to peer below.

Jaskier lay on his back, in a deep-green well of meadow grass and flowers that curled around him like a nest. He waved. He must have slid almost 30 feet and grey dust coated his clothing.

“Geralt,” he called out, “You absolutely must come down here this instant. The view is spectacular.”

He sounded light, even jocular, but his heartbeat hammered in Geralt’s ears like a drum, and the adrenaline mixed with the silvery-bright tang of pain. The bard was keeping his left leg rigidly still, though no blood or bone showed at least.

“I’ll come down in a minute,” Geralt said dryly, “Coming down in an instant is what got you into trouble. What’s wrong?”

Jaskier scoffed.

“It’s nothing,” he said, “Bit of fuckery with my ankle, that’s it. I just need a lie-down and I’ll be back on my feet.”

The witcher ignored his words and the strained smile. Most animals tried to hide injuries and pain. A poppycock like Jaskier was no different, though it was a little surprising that he wasn’t trying to play it up for drama.

“Stay off your damn feet until I have a look,” he said forcefully, “This already means we’re not making Lwyvellen before nightfall. Let’s not make it worse.”

The heartbeat jumped. He must have yelled more harshly than he intended, too angrily for a human, or perhaps he sounded grating to Jaskier's delicate and particular ear. He narrowed his focus to block out the heartbeat, the smell, the pain, focused on securing a rope around a twisted pine tree before he made his way down the slope. The rope was insurance, in case he needed to pull the bard up bodily. The mountain sunlight, still hovering above the rocky peaks, beat down on him as he inched his way downwards, exposed on the bald face of the slope. Sweat trickled down his neck and back. Careful. Careful. He tested every foot and handhold before trusting weight to it. Moss, lichens, and water hidden inside the layers meant even the solid rock was treacherously slick.

"I would kill for your shoulders," Jaskier said dreamily, his voice much nearer than he expected, "Tell me, have all your shirts been specially tailored?"

Geralt glanced down. About six feet to go, give or take, and the landing was soft. He took the leap and rolled up onto his feet next to the bard's spot in the long, deep-green grass. Jaskier jerked back in surprise and then made an ugly sound as the color rushed out of his face and left a putty-grey shade behind. 

"Fuck's sake," he said in a strangled voice, "It was meant to be a compliment, Geralt. No need to pounce on me like a mountain cat." 

The witcher snorted.

"You wouldn't have seen the cat. They drop down out of the trees to break your neck. I'd say you've already done half the job yourself. Let me see your leg."

He paused, his hands hovering at Jaskier's boot, the request not quite cursory even if it was part order. The bard groaned and slumped back in resignation, throwing one arm across his face to hide his eyes. Geralt took the moment to appreciate the absurdity of the situation. Jaskier posed like a swooning heroine in one of his ballads, arm draped artfully to keep the lace cuff off the grass, and tiny purple and white flowers dotting the ground around his head.

"Fine," he said, "Just...don't cut off the boot unless you have to. They're almost new and I would be furious with myself."

Geralt could appreciate that. He did not appreciate the elaborate decorative laces that wove through a dozen or more eyelets, and he used his knife to snick through them. He slid his left hand under the bard's heel as he cut the laces, then up to his calf to hold the leg stil. As he pulled the boot off, Jaskier tensed and jerked back. 

"Tell me," Jaskier asked, in a voice that was trying very hard not to tremble, "Is it very bad? I...I didn't have the stomach to look, in case there was blood. Or something sticking out."

The witcher shook his head and then remembered the bard had his eyes covered.

"No blood. And your boot is saved. I think it's a sprain. Try moving it."

The heartbeat was back, along with the scent of distress and adrenaline. Jaskier peeked cautiously from under his arm and wiggled first his toes, and then tried pointing his foot in a dancer's en pointe. Puffy swelling around the joint and across the top of the foot was concealing the deep bruise that would form underneath, blood technically there, but Geralt knew the bard couldn't see that. The tendon that ran up the back of his leg jumped under Geralt's hand and Jaskier released an exhalation that sounded like a sob. He set down the boot and carefully lowered the bard's leg to rest across his own lap, braced and stable where he knelt in the grass.

"Fuck me," he said, "Fuck, no, I can feel it alright, my ankle and, ah, fuck, probably my hamstring. Mmmm, nope, that's no fun. No fun at all."

Salt. Jaskier had his arm back clamped firmly over his face again but Geralt could tell there were tears in his eyes. He sighed and waited for the bard's heart-rate to slow a little before he spoke.

"Jaskier. Listen. I know that you think it's important to show a good face right now, but I know that you're in pain and it is worse than you're trying to let on. I know that you think a witcher would probably shrug this off. You're right. But this is you. My knowledge about human medicine is more limited, it wasn't...centered around healing. So you can pretend to be a witcher and I'll expect you to be recovered in a few hours, or you can talk to me and tell me what you'll need because you're human."

He sounded harsh to himself again but Jaskier's heart stayed steady this time. When he finished, the bard peeled back his arm, his sleeve wet and his eyes watery. Jaskier tried to keep a stern and heroic composure for a moment before his mouth trembled and his voice cracked, edged with pain.

"I'm not human, Geralt, I'm a mess. A big clumsy mess with an ankle that hurts like shitty-fucking-shit. It's never hurt this badly before and I don't think I can walk on it. I might have to live in this stupid little hole forever and you'll have to lower down baskets of food and books to me with that rope."

Even crying, Jaskier couldn't help but create a story. When Geralt let himself smile at the absurdity of the idea, his shaky sob turned into shaky laughter. The witcher paused and pursed his lips as an idea struck him.

"Your bag, it fell with you. Are you still carrying around that novel you bought back in Novigrad? The one with bad writing and no pictures to make up for it?"

Jaskier grimaced and sat up a little, shrugging a strap off one shoulder to drag out the bag pinned underneath him. 

"Ugh, yes, but I hardly see why---Geralt, my god, you monster, have you no decency? I said it's badly written, not an atrocity!"

He shrieked with indignation as the witcher retrieved the leatherbound volume from the pack, gripped the cover with one hand and the pages in the other, and ripped them free from the binding at the spine. The sewn and glued bundle of papers dropped to the grass and Jaskier flailed towards it, unable to quite reach it without moving his leg.

"I need the cover," Geralt said calmly, "You are not living down here and we'll need to brace that ankle with something if I'm to get you back up the hill." 

He sighed and tossed the stripped book to Jaskier. 

"There, happy now? You've got back your 'wretched turd of a tome writ to test the patience of the scholarly man whilst delighting the dull and tasteless pallet of the common moron.'"

Jaskier clutched the book to his chest, torn between anger and delight.

"So you do listen to what I say," he crowed, "I knew behind that stolid facade you put on that deep down, FUCK! Fuck, fuck me, that fucking hurts, you bastard, oooh, you fucking just did that to distract me. Ow, ow. Fine, fuck. That's better. But shit. Shit, I really did a number on that ankle."

His crow turned into hissed invectives as Geralt used the pliable leather cover to roll around his puffy ankle and bound it into place with pieces of his shoelace. He did listen to Jaskier, almost always, but the bard hardly needed another reason to inflate his enormous ego. Despite the cursing, Jaskier worked very hard to keep his leg still, even if the touch clearly caused him pain. 

"I don't think we'll need to amputate," he said, "So you could have done worse."

The bard stared at him suspiciously, as if trying to decide if amputation had ever been a real risk. He scowled.

"You're so comforting," he snapped, "I can't imagine why I haven't written a song about your bedside manner yet, White Wolf."

Geralt suppressed his smile this time.

"Maybe you should," he agreed infuriatingly.

He didn't explain. He knew Jaskier did find his presence comforting, because his heart-rate slowed when he was close, because his breathing had calmed now, and because he kept his leg resting on the witcher, trusting in his help. Geralt had seen enough false pretences sold to him by other humans before, enough friendliness and kindness sold to him while the other person was twitching with fear or hatred underneath the veneer. He'd had enough of that to appreciate genuine regard hidden under a mask of annoyance.

"Ugh," Jaskier huffed. 

He looked up at the slope and back at Geralt, and some of the starch went out him. 

"This is going to hurt, isn't it," he said in a small miserable voice. 

The witcher frowned and put his hand on the other's shoulder. He squeezed cautiously, because he'd hurt humans inadvertently before now.

"No way to avoid that," he said gruffly, "But I promise not to make it any worse than it needs to be."

Jaskier looked down at the hand on his shoulder and his jaw tightened. 

"Okay," he said.

His meek agreement did not last long. Geralt waited for Jaskier to exhaust his objections and protests, and then hoisted him onto his back, his arms clasped around the witcher's much-envied shoulders and neck. The bard wailed that his dignity was being hurt more than his ankle, but he hung on gamely enough, his good leg wrapped around Geralt's waist. He tried to do the same with his bad leg and the sharp and wild spike of pain and adrenaline that rolled off him made Geralt snap at him to leave it where it was. 

Jaskier went quiet for a bit (thankfully) as the witcher began to navigate the upward climb. Just as they reached the first tricky bit, of course, he regained his voice.

"How do you know?" he asked in wheedling tones, "You said that you aren't magic and you don't read minds, but you're remarkably thoughtful. Does it bother you? I mean to know how other people are feeling. You're so tense."

Geralt gritted his teeth.

"I'm tense because I'm carrying you on my back up a damn cliff," he growled, "Shut up for five minutes, if you can."

"Oh rub it in," Jaskier retorted, "This is humiliating eno--oh. Fine. Sorry."

His arms tightened around Geralt as the witcher's hands found purchase on a shallow ledge. The lopsided weight on his back affected his balance and he moved with a graceless jerk to reach the next foothold. He struggled to ignore the small noise Jaskier made, and the way the bard's chin dug into his shoulder as the move jostled the injured leg. It happened, again and again as he dragged them up both up the slope, always the bard trying to conceal his reaction while the witcher grew less and less able to hide the effect it was having on him to cause the pain without any way to lessen or prevent it. 

The rope helped to speed the climb, though by the time they reached the top, they were both drenched with sweat. Geralt felt as if his arms and legs were on fire, a knot in his hip where the bard kept digging in his heel whenever he flinched. He managed to claw his way to the path and stay on his feet, long enough for Jaskier to unwind himself and hop onto his good leg. The witcher gave him a hand and helped the bard lower himself to the ground, before promptly collapsing himself. He smoothed stray hair away from his face where it'd stuck to the sweaty skin, while Roach lifted her head to watch them both. His hands shook. Not much. But they shook.

Jaskier was shaking too, a little red on his bottom lip where he'd bitten through. He sat with his good leg cocked up and he wrapped his hands around the bad ankle and the improvised wrap around it. He exhaled heavily through his mouth and blew upwards in a mostly failed effort to get his own untidy hair out of his eyes. Roach's ears flicked at the sound.

"Oh, stop it," the bard said, "For the last time, I'm not copying you Roach. Even if imitation is the sincerest form of flattery."

He was tired. They both were, but the human was on the last reserves of his energy, even his remark to Roach was devoid of his normal cheekiness. His cheeks were drawn and that ugly grey color was back in his skin. He looked at Geralt and offered a wan smile.

"Thanks," he said, "Sorry if I don't smell thankful or brave, just hurts right now, but I am. Thankful, that is."

The witcher raised his eyebrows.

"Why the fuck are you so worried about what I think, Jaskier?" he said, half-exasperated, half-genuinely bewildered, "I told you, I don't expect you to behave like a witcher. Why should you apologize for it?"

Jaskier's shoulders dropped and he seemed to shrink in on himself, still clutching his ankle with both hands.

"You're right," he mumbled, "Nevermind. It's the pain talking. Ignore me."

Geralt wanted to shake him and say that ignoring him wasn't an option for his heightened senses, but he knew that was irrational and cruel. He let the bard rest while he found a place they could shelter for the night, a wide flat rock scorched by the ashes of past fires and sheltered by an overhanging wild olive tree. He worried when Jaskier let himself be carried without objection, and he worried because he had no way to measure if this much pain was normal, if perhaps he was making everything worse or if a simple sprained ankle really was such a problem for humans. He built a fire before the sun disappeared behind the mountains, against the sharp drop in temperature sure to follow. Only then could he take the time to sort through their supplies to try and find something that wouldn't poison a human.

"How's the swelling?" 

Jaskier shrugged.

"Bad. I'm tired. And this stupid rock is cold."

Geralt's head snapped up. Forget a comfrey poultice. The human was going into shock. He spread out Roach's rough saddle blanket across some pine branches to make a bed. 

"Come on," he said, "Let's get you warm."

He got Jaskier settled near the fire with his foot propped up on his unworn boot. The bard moved sluggishly and his usual running commentary was absent. Geralt dug out his heavy cloak from the bottom of his pack, where he'd put it away once the weather warmed. The edge of dusk was on them. He wrapped the cloak around himself and sat behind the bard. 

"Lean back," he said, and when Jaskier did, he folded his arms around the bard's arms and chest, drawing the cloak around him and under his chin like a tent. He kept his left leg at an uncomfortably wide angle to avoid bumping the injured ankle, but otherwise pulled the other as close and tight as possible. Shock could kill. Jaskier's teeth chattered as another chill shook him and he turned his face and buried it against the cloak and against Geralt's arm.

"Why...does...everything you...own...smell...like...onions?" he said as if personally affronted, though his words were tripping and slurrish. "Like being...hugged by a...a...stew. Stewpot. Geralt of Allium."

The witcher swallowed down the thick choking sensation in his throat and rubbed his hands up and down the bard's arms briskly.

"Maybe I missed my calling as a farmer," he said, "Keep talking. Tell me about Geralt of Allium. What are his deeds?"

Jaskier scowled.

"Mmm, I'm tired. Besides, I can't go up on stage. I haven't any pants on."

The lump in his throat came back. He knew that he kept his alarm contained, he knew that the panic he was feeling did not rise to the surface that others saw. He wished hopelessly that it did, that he could cry and scream and shake, that the awful throb in his chest didn't stop in his throat and it came out and he could be free of it. Geralt nudged Jaskier off his arm and urged him back upright.

"Stay with me," he asked and he sounded calm, he sounded so calm and collected and cool, "You're here with me now, you hurt your ankle, we're just taking time for you to rest and warm up. You definitely have pants on."

Jaskier's head lolled back against his chest and he squirmed a little in his arms. A branch shifted underneath them and he cried out as the shift jostled his injured leg. His body went rigid with pain as his heartbeat kicked up. 

"There's bees," Jaskier sobbed out, between tremors of chill that still racked him, "They're biting my leg something awful. I need pants, I need pants or they'll keep getting me."

Geralt exhaled sharply, and he pulled the bard closer and rested his chin in sweaty curls.

"Hey," he said. He tried to make his voice soft, soothing. "Hey, I'm here. I'm a famous fighter of bees. I won't let them bite you, Jaskier. You know that. I'm uh, I'll ward them away with Quen. Just hold still and they won't even see you."

The bard froze obediently and his glassy eyes darted suspiciously around the clearing as if to spot the dreaded insect horde. As the pain ebbed, he relaxed and some of the shaking ebbed with it. He slumped against Geralt and sighed.

"Don't care if we reach Lwyvellen," he grumbled, "I'm not taking my pants off. They can't make me."

Geralt sensed as his heart-rate steadied, as the shaking eased as he warmed. The lump in his throat started to shrink.

"Normally your problem is keeping your pants on," he said, though he could tell Jaskier was already half-asleep. Teasing meant that everything was safe again, that the bard was going to be alright. 

Jaskier mumbled some more indecipherable nonsense about a final exam, before he drifted off with his face pressed against the witcher's chest, his nose a little wrinkled as if he was still smelling onions. Geralt let him sleep as long as he could, until he had to tend to the fire again, and he rolled the bard into the cloak as tightly as he could to minimize movement. Jaskier kept up little noises of discomfort and grumbled and mumbled throughout the night, sometimes bursting back into sleep-dazed speech about being late for a performance or being attacked by bees. The witcher returned to his earlier search and added some water to heat on the fire. By the time Jaskier woke properly, it was a cold early dawn and he had a poultice ready, reluctant to disturb the bard from his uneasy sleep.

"Mmmmugh," Jaskier said, "Smells like wet wool. Hope that's not breakfast."

He started to sit up and Geralt laid a hand on the shin of his injured leg, to hold it still.

"Careful," he warned, "You sprained your ankle. Let me check it and then I'll wrap it tighter so we can get back on the road."

Jaskier woke up properly then and finished sitting up, cautiously, his eyes anxiously fixed on the witcher's every move.

"Right," he said and asked, slowly, "I, uh, I don't remember coming here last night. I kept dreaming about final exams, but somehow it was for classes I never attended. Did we talk? I thought we talked but it didn't make any sense."

Geralt untied the laces around the improvised brace, and nodded.

"You talked," he said, "Mostly nonsense, as you said. I didn't pay attention, you were in shock and shock does that to people."

A snort from Jaskier.

"But not you," he complained, "I bet you just plod through a shattered femur with a couple grunts and decoction."

Geralt peeled back the brace and his jaw tightened. The joint and whole foot were badly swollen, discolored, and he knew when he looked up at the bard's face that the injury was still causing him considerable amounts of pain.

"No one walks on a broken femur," he said, "Not even a witcher. This ah, this seems about the same as last night. Do you think that you'll be able to put weight on it anytime soon? Enough to ride?"

Jaskier raised one arched eyebrow incredulously.

"You really do have no clue how humans work," he said, "Did you think this would be better by morning? Geralt, I'm not sure if I can hop to a nearby bush to take a piss, let alone keep my arse on Roach."

The witcher kept his gaze fixed on his work as he eased the brace off so he could apply the prepared poultice. Jaskier tensed but only hissed a little through his clenched teeth as he gingerly set his bare foot back down on the blanket.

"I told you," he said evenly, "I don't have the same frame of reference. I would have been walking by last night with the same injury, and by now, it would mostly be a bruise and nothing else."

An olive pit bounced off his head and he looked up to see Jaskier's face screwed into a furious glare.

"You---you ass," he sputtered, "Is that supposed to make me feel better? Tell you what, how about you just find me a nice sturdy stick and I'll drag my crippled, human self to Lwyvellen myself, so I don't slow you down."

Geralt sat back on his heels and threw his hands up in exasperation.

"Yes?" he said, in answer to the bard's question, "I told you last night, I don't expect you to meet witcher standards, I'm going to be a very bad judge of what you can do and what help you'll need, and I'm sorry that my training didn't make me very good at being nice or nursing someone back to health. But I'm not the least bit exasperated with you or your ankle, and I think you are probably doing just as well as any human could be expected to do in the same place, except for your belief that I'm judging you poorly."

He paused, suddenly aware that a weight had rushed out of him along with his words. Jaskier quieted as he spoke, and he settled into a sulk, his head dropped and his fingers rolling another dried olive pit between them. His face was flushed pink and he wouldn't look at the witcher.

"I'm not...I don't want to do just as well as any ordinary human," he admitted in a small, ashamed voice. "I want to do better. I want you to think better of me than any other human and most of the time, you probably think worse of me. Especially..." He flailed and looked up finally, his cheeks bright red and his hands flailing as he gestured to his leg and their surroundings, "when I'm chucking things at your head like an angry milkmaid."

He was breathing heavily, still crimson in his cheeks and throat, but he finally looked Geralt in the eye and the witcher knew he was telling the truth. Jaskier breathed his emotions from every pore of himself, and there was something that ached fiercely in Geralt's chest to see how absolutely vulnerable the human allowed himself to be. Was capable of being. He didn't know if it was jealousy or affection. He wondered if those were the same thing.

"Jaskier," he said, "You're right." He continued swiftly as the bard's face crumpled. "I don't appreciate being pelted with olive pits. It's annoying and childish. But you're also wrong if you imagine that I think of you as just like any other human. You're not. You're the only---damn it, I'm not saying this right. Look." 

He exhaled and steadied himself. "I'm unpleasant. I scare women and children with my face and cats find me hateful. I'm demanding, I'm particular, I know a grand total of three dances and I do them all badly. I can't sing to pass the time, I make poetry sound like a recipe, and my cooking is worse. I've been told silence is preferable to my efforts to make conversation. I once began a letter to a woman I loved with "Dear friend" because I'm an idiot and...and because a dear friend is something rare and precious for someone like me to have. I have no idea why you choose to spend time with me, or why you place an ounce of importance on my judgement, but if it does and if it makes you feel better, then pay attention. You are my friend, my good and dear friend, and you're impossibly good to an old bore like me. You make new friends in every town and you don't rush to kill anything you don't understand, like other humans do. You have fallen in love more truly and fully with far more people than I thought was possible and broken your heart just as many times, and yet you still keep loving. I don't understand it. I'm incapable of it. But it makes me feel closer to---to things that I've never had, just to have you near. It makes me feel like I might guess what it is to be human."

Geralt faltered through the last words, convinced that he had probably bungled somewhere in his speech and another olive pit would be rapid-fired at his forehead. Instead, Jaskier's mouth dropped open and he stared at the witcher like he fell from the heavens. His wide eyes filled with tears.

"Why, Geralt," he said in astonished tones, "That's the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me. Or written to me, actually, and that's quite a bit. I thought that you found me weak and unmanly for my feelings and failings. Now I find that you've got a truly tender heart underneath that stern frown. Come, embrace me, friend."

He made a noise between a shriek and a squeak when he tried to throw himself forward to deliver the promised hug, forgetting his injury. Geralt pretended not to hear it, and he made the bard lay back down so that he could apply the poultice. Jaskier glared at him as best he could from his prone position.

"I'm still going to hug you," he threatened, "This is just a pause, a brief moment of respite. You will not use my injury as an excuse to hide back in that shell."

The witcher wondered if he had made a mistake. He pulled the bandage around for the last time and tucked it under firmly.

"I'm a turtle now?" he asked skeptically, "Last night, I was an onion farmer."

Jaskier looked confused but nodded.

"Don't try to distract me," he said warningly, "I'm famously good at ignoring distractions. Ouch! Damn, it's not a corset, Geralt, I do need some circulation in that foot." 

Geralt was calm again, but this time it felt right to be calm and relaxed. Jaskier was chatting, his heart-rate normal; he smelled like woodsmoke and stale clothes, and he had color back in his cheeks. He finished applying the brace again and said, "Stay there" sternly, because the idiot could start hurling himself around again. The bard waited and looked up in question as the witcher settled next to him.

"Well," Geralt said grudgingly, "I'm here. No need to reinjure yourself just to get your hug."

Jaskier smiled brilliantly and threw his arms up around the witcher's neck and squeezed him with fierce affection. Geralt leaned into the embrace, his arms coming to rest around the bard's shoulders, reassured to find him whole and warm and the thump of his heart steady against his chest. He felt his shoulder getting wet as Jaskier began to weep again, a little dramatically this time.

"Friends for life," he asserted, "I'll always count you as my very dearest and best friend, Geralt. Never forget that."

"How could I," Geralt mumbled, "You're stuck on me like a horsefly."

A sputtered gasp and he relented.

"Oh, settle down. I uh, care for you as well. You're a good human, Jaskier."

He said good human, but what he meant was the best human. Somehow, judging by the hug, he felt that Jaskier understood.


End file.
